


Tuesday Morning

by moony



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moony/pseuds/moony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It might be the best and worst Tuesday imaginable. Also, brains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday Morning

Sherlock wakes to an overcast Tuesday with a planet of dread rotating lazily in his belly. It is not an ordinary Tuesday, as much as Sherlock would like it to be. It is quite possibly the worst Tuesday of the year, and that includes the Tuesday two months before, the incident with the newts (John still won’t discuss it, and in a rare compromise Sherlock concedes that it does not need discussing, not at all). No, this Tuesday will be much, much worse.

It’s Sherlock’s birthday.

Mycroft, of course, can be counted on to send a card (tasteful, selected by an assistant, signed in fountain pen) and some sort of ridiculous gift (an iPod last year, promptly dismantled in a fit of pique and boredom, reconfigured into a small explosive device that may come in handy, one day). His mother might ring, but that depends on her level of sobriety and whether or not she’s dropped her mobile in the bath (again). Other relations will carry on the long-standing tradition of acknowledging Sherlock’s birthday by pretending that he was, in fact, never born at all. It is a comforting predictability, and in truth it is the only predictability Sherlock allows in his life, that his birthday will come and go not with a bang, but a whimper.

This year, however, there is a new factor: John Watson.

It was just a week ago, after an unfortunate incident involving a fleeing counterfeiter and a rusty, barbed-wire fence, that John had practically frog-marched him to the surgery for a tetanus shot. The cut on Sherlock’s hand was hardly deep enough to warrant such an overreaction, but he’d learnt quickly that when it came to medical matters John was as stubborn as Sherlock could be about, well, _everything else._

They’d sat for ages in the waiting room, and John had peered over Sherlock’s shoulder as he filled out acres of paperwork.

“Is that your birthday?” he’d said, pointing at the clipboard. Sherlock winced.

“Yes,” he’d said. Under _pre-existing conditions_ he’d scribbled _migraines, indigestion and nosy flatmate_. “Contrary to what Donovan might tell you, I was not simply imagined into being.”

John had just smiled indulgently. “Well, the idea of you as an infant is very disturbing,” he’d said. Then he’d looked down at the paper again. “That’s only a few days from now, isn’t it? Hm.”

The _hm_ had made Sherlock’s skin crawl.

Despite being an otherwise pleasant flatmate, John is unfortunately given to fits of utter ridiculousness when it comes to birthdays or major holidays. For Mrs Hudson’s birthday two months ago he’d insisted on cooking her an enormous dinner, which had displaced Sherlock’s chemistry equipment for three days. They’d all had to put on nice clothes, there was an elaborately decorated cake, and John had worn a pointed, paper hat (Sherlock set his own on fire once the candles were lit). He’d mouthed the words to ‘Happy Birthday’ mostly because he didn’t know them, but also because _he did not sing._ And he’d nearly objected to the gift being from the both of them, because he’d signed his name to nothing and because he _never_ would have picked that pattern scarf for Mrs Hudson, not with her colouring.

Afterward, while cleaning up, John had scowled at him for hours. “It was her 70th, Sherlock,” he’d said. “She’s got no one to make a fuss over her, so it falls to us. Couldn’t you have at least made the effort?”

“It is patently ludicrous that we celebrate birthdays,” Sherlock had replied, putting his beakers back on the kitchen table, in the proper order. “So you’ve survived another year. Good for you. Pat on the back, Bob’s your uncle, move on, already.”

John had just looked at him. “You’re hopeless,” he’d said, with no small amount of disappointment.

Sherlock shrugged. “Probably.”

With immense trepidation, Sherlock eventually gets out of bed. It would be the best sort of revenge for John to make a spectacle of Sherlock’s birthday, to make a point. He envisions a sitting room festooned with crepe paper, balloons and the like. An obnoxious cake. More of those stupid pointy hats. It’s enough to make Sherlock contemplate bypassing the flat altogether and sneaking out of his bedroom window, provided he’d survive the drop (broken leg, nothing serious, might be worth it).

With a sigh, he resigns himself to his fate, opens his bedroom door and pads out into the kitchen. John is there, making himself eggs and toast.

“Morning.”

Sherlock blinks. “Morning.” The kitchen looks normal. His equipment hasn’t been moved. No bright colors, no frosting on the ceiling (John isn’t good with a mixer). No indication that anything is amiss.

It is unnerving.

“Wan’ fome eggsh?” asks John, around a mouthful of toast. Sherlock shakes his head, makes himself a cup tea and pads into the living room. It is also a birthday-free zone. Everything right where it ought to be - newspaper on chair, skull on mantel, John’s laptop open to Facebook (he must have got one to keep track of Harry, who was the sort for whom Facebook was invented, convinced everyone needed to know everything about her, at all times). All of these things are perfectly normal.

He sits in the chair and pulled the newspaper into his lap, frowning at the headlines. He can't keep his mind on them. He waits, listening to the sound of John moving around in the kitchen, hoping for some kind of warning before he and Mrs Hudson (and, God forbid, Mycroft - he _would_ chuck himself out the window if that happened) leap from the shadows, flinging birthday cheer everywhere. Any minute now.

It never comes.

The day progresses as most days do. John goes off to work for a few hours, and Sherlock catches up on correspondence. There’s a message from Lestrade regarding a counterfeiter that has proved too wriggly for the Yard to apprehend. Mrs Hudson pops in, fusses about the mess in the kitchen, makes him another cup of tea, and goes about her merry way. John comes back in time for a late lunch of Chinese take-away in front of the telly. The sun begins to set, and John heads up to his bedroom to work on his blog for a bit, leaving Sherlock to fiddle around with his website.

There is no mention at all of Tuesday, other than it’s a bit warmer than Monday was.

“Sherlock?”

He looks up from his computer. John is standing in the doorway, jacket on, fidgeting the way he does when he’s not sure about something. “Have we got anything on for tonight?” he asks. “You know, any murders, surveillance, daring chase across the rooftops. That sort of thing?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said. “Why?”

“Well, it’s just that I thought I’d pop out for a bit.” He gestures over his shoulder. “Y’know, go down the pub. Think there’s a match on.” He grinned. “You hate football, so. Figured you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock.

“You don’t mind?”

Sherlock looks back to his computer screen, so that he doesn’t have to see the little wrinkle of concern between John’s eyebrows. “I’m fairly certain I can amuse myself for a few hours, John,” he says. “Try not to drink too much, the flat smells for days after you’ve been sick in it, and frankly I don’t fancy finding you face down in the shower again.”

“Do my best, but no promises if Arsenal wins.” John gives a little wave (Sherlock doesn’t have to see it to know that he does it) and goes, stomping down the stairs and letting the door slam behind him. The flat is still.

The thing is, Sherlock finds, he _does_ mind. While the notion that John might make a fuss of his birthday fills him with dread, he is not prepared to spend it _alone_. He’d hoped instead that he and John might go for dinner, or perhaps John would force him to watch another one of his ridiculous television shows (though, to be honest, _Top Chef_ wasn’t so bad except for always making him hungry). Or they might have gone into Southwick to see if they can’t locate that counterfeiter of Lestrade’s. Nothing out of the ordinary, fairly typical, yet interesting, evening activites for them.

Now, though, he’s not sure what he should do with himself. He checks his website but there aren’t too many interesting discussions happening in the forums. His e-mail is full of pithy, pedestrian little problems (missing cat, stolen car, runaway teenager) that don’t promise much in the way of alleviating boredom. And from the sound of it Mrs Hudson is watching _X-Factor_ which completely eliminates the possibility of bothering her, lest he subject himself to even a second of that horror.

With a sigh, Sherlock snaps closed his laptop and hops out of his chair. He may as well see what’s happening with that missing cat. It’s better than nothing.

\--

Several hours later Sherlock returns to the flat to find it still empty. Annoyed, he hangs up his sodden coat and shakes out his hair. John will no doubt have something to say about him tracking in half the Thames, but Sherlock is not in the mood to be tidy. That damned cat had proved to be more trouble than he was worth, even if it did lead him to a breakthrough with Lestrade’s counterfeiter, which is why he fell into the river. If John had been there, it wouldn’t have gone that way. Or at least he wouldn’t be the only one who smelled so foul. Stupid John, and his stupid pub and stupid football.

Stupid Tuesdays.

He snaps on the light and goes still. _Something is different. Something is changed._ He looks around the sitting room, eyes narrowed, mentally cataloguing everything. Nothing missing; his laptop is still where he’d left it, the telly is still there, and the strongbox where John keeps his gun is still locked. The windows are shut. There’s no indication that anyone has been in, and yet Sherlock _knows_ that something isn’t right.

His gaze falls on the mantel, and there is the problem: where his skull had been there is now instead a large jar, the type of jar they keep specimens in at a laboratory. In the jar is a human brain. And on top of the jar is a garish, multicoloured party hat.

 _Ah, John._

Sherlock forgets that he’s soaking wet and smelly and crosses the room to inspect the jar. It is labeled, in neat handwriting: _Brain of Jefferson Hope, age 64, male. Died 31/1/10 of GSW to heart._ He can see the aneurysm, not yet burst, a little bubble of coagulated blood right there in the right frontal lobe. It is otherwise a normal sort of brain to have belonged to such an abnormal sort of person.

He doesn’t have to wonder how John might’ve got it. He’s got the same sort of connections at Bart’s that Sherlock has, plus the added benefit of actually being a doctor. He also doesn’t wonder what it says about a man that he’d go out of his way to procure the brain of a man he’s killed, and then give it for a birthday present, because that isn’t important, either.

What is important is that it is quite possibly the most fantastic birthday present Sherlock has ever received.

Later, when he’s washed up and changed into his pyjamas, and he’s sitting at the kitchen table with a sliver of grey matter under the microscope (the party hat has been relocated to the skull), John comes in smelling of beer and cheerfulness, and gives him a nod. “Evening.”

“Hello.” Sherlock doesn’t look up. “How was the match?”

John shrugs. “Oh, you know. How was your evening?”

“The same.” He glances at John and offers him a smile. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t have to be specific. John knows what it’s for.

“You’re welcome,” he says, as he puts on the kettle.


End file.
